Blondie
Well, Orangie-Yellow, anyway.
As part of the ongoing festivities commemorating my 50th birthday—which, by the way, I’m not making a big deal of at all—I’ve dyed my hair blonde…well, orange-yellow, anyway.
I’ve done this suicide blonde (dyed by his own hand) thing about half a dozen times, usually with somewhat mixed results, and this time's no exception.
Usually, I either get it really platinum, (but fry my hair to the consistency of sawdust), or it ends up a sort of punk-albino pinkish yellow wheat color (but then, at least, my hair feels not entirely dead and dessicated.)
This time, it’s more the latter result; my scalp, thankfully, is not on fire, although the tips of my hair do look a bit singed.
Jen, bless her heart, was my colorist this time around and she persevered through three separate applications of the caustic chemicals. If that’s not a fine birthday present, I don’t know what is.
I’ve gone to a salon several times and while the outcome tends to be a bit more predictable, I find the process really hard to take. It’s bad enough paying like five times more than the do-it-yourself cost, but what’s worse, and what my fragile male ego just can’t stomach, is sitting in public with the goop and shower cap on my head for two to three hours. I’m ambivalent enough about being the sort of pampered sissy who has the time and inclination to devote so much energy to his hairdo; having to present myself as an exhibit of this at the haidressers for all to see is more than I can take.
Plus, blonding at home allows one to more freely consume alcoholic beverages, which enables one to be much more sanguine about the results.
The elephant in the room question, of course, is whether I look younger (or intended to) as a blonde. I’d say “results inconclusive,” but maybe one more treatment later this week will tell.
As part of the ongoing festivities commemorating my 50th birthday—which, by the way, I’m not making a big deal of at all—I’ve dyed my hair blonde…well, orange-yellow, anyway.
I’ve done this suicide blonde (dyed by his own hand) thing about half a dozen times, usually with somewhat mixed results, and this time's no exception.
Usually, I either get it really platinum, (but fry my hair to the consistency of sawdust), or it ends up a sort of punk-albino pinkish yellow wheat color (but then, at least, my hair feels not entirely dead and dessicated.)
This time, it’s more the latter result; my scalp, thankfully, is not on fire, although the tips of my hair do look a bit singed.
Jen, bless her heart, was my colorist this time around and she persevered through three separate applications of the caustic chemicals. If that’s not a fine birthday present, I don’t know what is.
I’ve gone to a salon several times and while the outcome tends to be a bit more predictable, I find the process really hard to take. It’s bad enough paying like five times more than the do-it-yourself cost, but what’s worse, and what my fragile male ego just can’t stomach, is sitting in public with the goop and shower cap on my head for two to three hours. I’m ambivalent enough about being the sort of pampered sissy who has the time and inclination to devote so much energy to his hairdo; having to present myself as an exhibit of this at the haidressers for all to see is more than I can take.
Plus, blonding at home allows one to more freely consume alcoholic beverages, which enables one to be much more sanguine about the results.
The elephant in the room question, of course, is whether I look younger (or intended to) as a blonde. I’d say “results inconclusive,” but maybe one more treatment later this week will tell.
posted by Professor Dave at 1:36 PM
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